


Chained And Bound

by cuttooth



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: A Fear Artifact Made Them Do It, Also clit clamps, Crying, Dubious Consent, Eldritch Sex Toys, M/M, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, Nipple Clamps, Oral Sex, Sex Pollen, Socially Awkward Peter Lukas, Trans Martin Blackwood, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27565546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: It’s a very pretty thing, he thinks absently. The metal is golden colored, with a rosy blush to it. It can’t be actual gold, though when Martin picks it up, it’s heavy for its fragile appearance. The chains are almost flimsy, and where all three come together there is an elaborate, knotted embellishment. The clamps themselves are intricate and delicate, their weight pleasing in Martin’s hand. There are rows of tiny, blunt teeth carved at their tips, almost like an alligator clip. They make Martin think of hungry mouths, of animal traps.The cool air brushes against Martin’s bare, damp skin, making his nipples stir. He shivers.*Martin gets a gift, and a lot more than he expects.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Peter Lukas
Comments: 28
Kudos: 135





	Chained And Bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fatal_drum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fatal_drum/gifts).



> Happy (belated!) Birthday to fatal_drum, one of my very favorite people. Nobody hurts Martin as good as you do, but I thought I could at least make him cry a little for you! <3
> 
> Title with apologies to Otis Redding. 
> 
> The nipple/clit clamps in this fic are spooky artifacts and do not work like real world sex toys. Please do NOT wear clamps on any part of your anatomy for extended periods. Tissue damage isn't sexy. 
> 
> This fic features one-sided sex pollen and dubious consent. Specific details are available in the end notes.
> 
> Words used for Martin's anatomy include: cock, cunt, breasts

Martin is just about to leave for the day when he spots the parcel on his desk. It’s a small, oblong shape, wrapped in what looks like brown paper—though on closer inspection it’s actually a muted gold—and tied with a thin pink ribbon. It also wasn’t there just a few minutes ago, when Martin went to rinse out his tea mug in the bathroom sink. 

Martin sighs. There’s no card, but he knows who it’s from.

“Peter?” he calls, though he knows it’s pointless. Peter never sticks around after he leaves one of his gifts. _Like a cat dropping a dead mouse on your doormat,_ Martin thinks uncharitably. He glances at his phone. If he doesn’t leave now, he’s going to miss his train, so he grabs the parcel and shoves it into his bag. He can deal with it when he gets home. 

It’s not that Peter gives bad gifts. In fact he gives really excellent gifts, tasteful and far too expensive. The problem is that he’s giving Martin gifts at all, which would be inappropriate enough if Peter was just his boss, never mind the whole ‘avatar of an evil power’ thing. Martin attempted to return the first few, but Peter seemed baffled by the concept and vanished from sight any time Martin raised the issue, so eventually he gave up.

At first, Martin was worried that accepting them implied some...seedy agreement on his part, but Peter hasn’t asked him for anything. Just flirted in his usual blunt, oddly disarming way, his pale blue eyes lingering with pleasure when he sees Martin wearing the latest cashmere sweater or tailored shirt that’s been delivered to him. It feels a bit like being courted, and Martin has to admit that it’s nice. Despite how awful everything is—or perhaps _because_ —it feels _good_ to get attention from an attractive man. Even if he’s a sort of monster. 

Martin’s flat is cold when he gets home, so he turns on the heating, and digs some leftover Chinese takeaway out of the fridge to reheat. The crispy duck isn’t so crispy after a turn in the microwave, but it’s been a long time since lunch, so he eats hungrily while a repeat of _Peep Show_ plays on the telly. After dinner, he finally takes the parcel out of his bag. The gold paper is pleasingly thick, and rustles as he unwraps it. Inside is a plain, cream colored box, unmarked. It looks almost like some sort of jewelry box. Martin lifts the lid and looks inside, scolding himself for the little thrill of anticipation he feels.

At first, he thinks it’s a necklace, a long, delicate chain with several pendants, but _that’s_ not right. Martin squints at it, wondering. He lifts the chain, sees the way its segments hang, the object dangling from the end of each section, and realizes what it is.

“Oh you are _kidding,”_ he says, and drops it back into the box. He feels his face flaming as he puts the lid back on and pushes the box across the table away from him. This is just...beyond the pale. Not just inappropriate, this is _unacceptable,_ and he’s going to tell Peter as much next time he sees him. Give him a proper piece of his mind. 

“Honestly!” he mutters to himself, and goes to make a cup of tea. 

Martin doesn’t think about the gift anymore that night. The box sits on his coffee table, and he ignores it completely, because it’s not even worth thinking about. He doesn’t even look at the box, honestly, scarcely glances at it. Doesn’t think about its contents at all. Tomorrow he’s bringing it back to the Institute, and he’ll either make Peter take it back or toss it in the bin. Either way, words will be had.

*

The next morning he’s still not thinking about it when he gets out of the shower. Except when he walks into the bedroom, the box is there, sitting on his bedside table. Martin’s pretty sure he left it in the living room, so he could just grab it on his way out the door. Didn’t he? But it’s right here, so he must have brought it in last night. Maybe so he’d be sure not to forget about it? He doesn’t remember doing that, but he was very tired last night. It must have slipped his mind. He also doesn’t recall seeing it this morning when he woke up, but he’s seeing it now, so it must have been there all along.

“Better check and make certain,” he tells himself, because he needs to be sure he’s throwing the correct box back in Peter’s face, and it _is_ fairly nondescript. Martin opens the box and looks inside. 

It’s a very pretty thing, he thinks absently. The metal is golden colored, with a rosy blush to it. It can’t be _actual_ gold, though when Martin picks it up, it’s heavy for its fragile appearance. The chains are almost flimsy, and where all three come together there is an elaborate, knotted embellishment. The clamps themselves are intricate and delicate, their weight pleasing in Martin’s hand. There are rows of tiny, blunt teeth carved at their tips, almost like an alligator clip. They make Martin think of hungry mouths, of animal traps. 

The cool air brushes against Martin’s bare, damp skin, making his nipples stir. He shivers. 

There’s a full length mirror in one corner of the room. Martin stands in front of it and drops the towel from around his waist, scrutinizing himself. His chest has always been small in proportion to his body, and T has reduced it further, each breast scarcely half a handful. His nipples stand up pink and stiff. Martin bites his lip, considering. Then he pinches open one of the clamps, the mechanism moving smoothly, and lets it close around his left nipple. 

The sensation is lovely, firm pressure and the slight tug of the dangling weight. The teeth don’t bite, just squeeze in a way that feels...really nice. Without thinking about it, Martin attaches a clamp to his other nipple. It feels just as good, and he feels his face going hot with excitement and guilt, as if he’s doing something illicit and he might get caught. There’s nobody else here, he reminds himself. He’s alone. 

The final clamp sits heavily in his hand, waiting. Martin reaches down and spreads himself open so that his cock stands proud, already starting to swell from the stimulation. Martin fits the clamp around the base of his cock, below the hood, and _that_ draws a gasp from him. 

He looks in the mirror again. His cheeks are very pink. The rosy gold metal looks good against his fair skin and the reddish curls of his pubic hair, the delicate chains looping between his nipples and trailing down to his cock. Martin likes how it looks, exotic and titillating; not words that people would normally associate with Martin Blackwood. He could wear this under his clothes and nobody would ever know. Peter would certainly never know, and Martin could enjoy it without giving Peter the satisfaction. 

He has a vague idea that you’re not supposed to wear nipple clamps for an extended period, but they feel good. Not uncomfortable. He could wear them for just a little while. As soon as he feels any discomfort, he can go to the bathroom and take them off. Easy. Martin trails a hand to the knotwork that joins the chains, and tugs gently on it. The pinch of the clamps tightens just a bit, and his breath quickens.

“Well, why shouldn’t I?” he asks himself in the mirror. Mirror Martin doesn’t have an answer for that, just looks at him with hazy eyes and flushed cheeks. 

Martin gets dressed in slacks and a shirt with a thick jumper over it. He usually wears a binder to work, but he doesn’t think that would be a good idea with the clamps, and a jumper covers his chest comfortably enough. Once he’s dressed, there’s no visible sign of what he’s wearing beneath. Martin can feel it, though, a constant, low hum of sensation in his nipples and his cock, the chains shifting against his skin as he moves. It’s exciting, having this little secret, something that’s only for him. 

*

Martin isn’t even at work before he starts to regret his decision.

He’s never before noticed _quite_ how much the train shakes, its vibrations shuddering through his body, the metal clamps quivering against his most sensitive parts. By the time he reaches his stop, Martin is squirming in his seat. He walks out of the station with his cock throbbing, wetness gathering between his thighs, every step making the clamps swing in an excruciating rhythm. 

“Bad idea, _bad_ idea,” he mutters to himself. What was he thinking, wearing something like this out of the house? His body is screaming for attention, his briefs starting to soak through, and he only hopes it doesn’t stain his trousers. The only relief is that he’s better and better at being inconspicuous these days; nobody gives him a second glance as he hurries awkwardly down the street, trying to keep his thighs from pressing together. 

Martin gets through the front door of the Institute and up the stairs to his office, locks the door and leans against it, breathing hard. He fumbles his trousers open with shaking fingers and shoves a hand inside, feeling the heat and wet, his stiff cock jutting through the body warmed metal of the clamp. Martin rubs his fingers over it once, twice, and he’s coming, his knees going weak and a reedy, gasping cry escaping him. He bites down on the heel of his hand to silence himself as his orgasm goes on and on, his hips bucking helplessly. 

At last it subsides, and Martin slides down to sit at the base of the door, panting for breath. His cock is still twitching. He pulls his jumper off over his head and unbuttons his shirt, the stir of cold air against his nipples dragging an involuntary whimper from his throat. They are swollen and dark pink, and Martin feels a jolt of pleasure at the sight of them. They look ripe, ready to be licked and sucked, or teased more with little tugs on the chain that connects them. Martin could just play with them a little bit— 

“None of that,” Martin tells himself firmly, shaking the feeling off. By now he’s fairly confident there’s something very off about Peter’s gift, aside from how inappropriate it is, because really, his decision making isn’t usually this bad. Eldritch sex toys, sounds like the kind of thing Peter might give as a bad joke, to humiliate Martin. Well, he’s not going to fall for it. At least, not any further than he already bloody has. Martin takes one of the clamps in hand and squeezes the arms to open it.

Nothing happens. The mechanism must be stiff. Martin presses harder, but the arms remain locked.

“What the hell?” he mutters. He feels around the clamp. There must be some release catch, but if there is, he can’t find it. He tries the other clamp; its arms are also jammed. 

“All right,” Martin tells himself, trying to allay the panic crawling up his spine. “All right.” He can remove the clamps without opening them. They’re not that tight, it might hurt a little but he can slide them off. He takes hold of the clamp again, pulls _,_ and whimpers as it yanks on his tender nipple, the flesh stretching painfully taut. He pulls harder, frantically.

“Come on, come _on!”_ he begs, and then cries out loud at a sharper sting, metal teeth biting down on sensitive flesh. A drop of blood wells up around the teeth of the clamp and Martin releases it with a gasp. It’s not coming off, he realizes. Or at least it might, but it’s going to take his nipple with it. He can feel tears of pain and panic welling up in the corners of his eyes, and he blinks them away furiously. 

_Peter,_ he thinks. This was Peter’s doing, a cruel game, so Martin would have to come to him and beg. So Peter will know Martin’s used his ‘gift’. The thought of Peter seeing him like this, frantic and aroused, sends a rush of heat through him that makes him bite his lip. God, what is _wrong_ with him? He can hardly think, he’s so hot all over, blood rushing so hard he feels light headed. His nipples are pulsing in time to his heartbeat, arousal curling in the pit of his stomach. Martin gets slowly to his feet, hearing his breath ragged, his blood pounding in his ears. Every movement makes the clamps shift and swing, setting his nerve endings on fire. He makes it as far as the sofa before he’s pushing his trousers and underwear down around his thighs, he’s so aroused it _hurts_ and maybe if he comes again he’ll be able to think a bit more clearly. 

Martin drags two fingers up between the lips of his cunt, where he’s hot and wet, and rubs them across the head of his cock. It looks painfully hard, trapped in the metal jaws of the clamp, and Martin thinks of circulation and tissue damage for half a second before arousal rushes over him, emptying his head of thought. His cock is so sensitive, pleasure shading into pain where he strokes it, and Martin moans, dipping fingers back into his slit while he fucks against the heel of his hand. His other hand tugs at the chain looping between his nipples, the clamps pinching sweetly every time he does, relieving that desperate ache for attention. Martin rocks into his own hand, quick and breathless, and it’s only a few moments before he’s coming again. This time he doesn’t even try to stifle his cry, shaking and twisting through his climax. 

Martin curls in on himself, weak and wrecked, panting for air. His whole body feels oversensitized, the cool air against his overheated skin at once soothing and tormenting. He tries to sit up, but the clamps shift and squeeze and he slumps helplessly against the arm of the sofa, hand crawling back between his legs to rub over his cock, groaning with despair and arousal as he pushes three fingers into the slick heat of his cunt. 

“Peter,” he breathes, because he _needs_ Peter, though the thought makes him furious. This is Peter’s trick, and Peter is the only person who can help him. He feels a fresh gush of hot wetness at the thought of Peter raking cool eyes over him, an amused smile for Martin’s predicament. Martin whimpers, and sinks his fingers deeper inside himself, his body already shuddering towards another torturous orgasm. 

*

“Well, isn’t this a sight for sore eyes.” 

Martin comes back to himself at the sound of Peter’s voice, cutting through the haze of endless arousal he’s sunk into. He has no idea how long it’s been, or how many times he’s come. His body is exhausted, shivering, his skin clammy. He is aching with want, frantic with it, no matter how many orgasms he wrings out, teeth clenched and muscles straining. His trapped cock keeps throbbing with want, his pinched nipples blooming with pleasure and pain so intertwined he can’t distinguish them. He can feel dried tears on his cheeks, though he doesn’t remember weeping. His throat is parched and sore from crying out. 

“Peter,” he croaks, and it’s supposed to sound angry but it just sounds desperate, pleading. Peter’s blue eyes wander over him hungrily, taking it all in. 

“You should have let me know you were going to do this for my birthday,” he says conversationally. “I would have come in sooner—or we could have gone to mine.” 

“Your birthday?” Martin manages to say, and is that _it?_ Is this a twisted birthday present from Peter to himself? Did he expect Martin to know, to go along with it? Never mind that he _did_ go along with it unwittingly, god, but isn’t that just like Peter? Come up with a plan and expect Martin to be in on it without ever telling him anything. Martin tries to order his thoughts so he can give Peter a piece of his mind, but then Peter sits down on the sofa, and the shifting of the cushions sends a spasm of sensation through him, making him moan loudly. 

“Please…” 

“Poor thing,” says Peter, stroking his thigh possessively. “Were you waiting for me long? I can’t believe I was missing such a sight. This is a lovely look on you.” His thick fingers gently stroke along the chain to the connecting knot, and he tugs on it. All three clamps tighten at once and Martin whimpers, arching his back into the sensation. 

“Peter, please,” Martin says, squirming, he needs these things _off_ him, he needs— 

“Would you like me to fuck you?” Peter asks, and tugs on the chains again, and Martin moans, twisting against the agonizing pressure of the clamps. 

“Please, Peter, please, yes,” he hears himself whining and he can’t even be ashamed of himself, he needs it so badly. All thought of demanding Peter _fix_ this is gone, Martin needs more than anything to be fucked, needs more than his own fingers inside him. Peter is a big man, and Martin’s imagined more than once that his cock might be equally large, thick and heavy enough to fill him completely. 

“Please…” he manages again, and Peter chuckles. 

“Since you ask so nicely, pet.” 

Martin’s trousers and pants are tangled somewhere around his knees, and Peter easily yanks them the rest of the way off, taking his shoes as well and leaving Martin only in socks. He manhandles Martin into a sitting position and kneels between his legs, his hands resting on Martin’s inner thighs. His eyes roam over Martin again. Martin imagines how he looks to Peter, naked and trussed, displayed in the cruel gift Peter sent him, his cunt open and wet and his whole body quivering. By now the thought only sends heat through him, and he lets his legs splay wider under Peter’s touch.

“Oh, you lovely thing,” Peter says, and leans in to swipe his tongue over Martin’s aching nipple. The touch is wet and amazing and Martin pushes into it, moaning helplessly. Peter flicks his tongue, curls it around the swollen nub, while his big hand covers Martin’s other breast, squeezing and kneading. Peter licks him until Martin is squirming and gasping, then moves to his other nipple while the cold air plays over the wetness he’s left behind. Martin thinks he might come just from this, his cock throbbing between his legs, hips thrusting against nothing. It’s not quite enough, though, and Peter keeps teasing him, gently licking and sucking and squeezing until Martin’s head is spinning. He tries to reach for his own cock, but Peter smacks his hands away firmly.

“You’ve had enough of your own hands,” he says. “Greedy thing.” 

“Please,” Martin whines, “Peter, I need to come, _please.”_

Peter leans back and smiles at him, hungrily. He wraps his hand around the chain, his hand engulfing the knot, and tugs on it, sharp and insistent. Martin moans aloud as the clamps pinch tight, not caring how needy he sounds. Peter chuckles and pulls on the chains again, and again, a relentless rhythm that sends Martin gasping, arching off the seat with sensation sparking through him, hot and painful and _good, good, good,_ and he’s crying as he climaxes again, sobs wracking his body while tears slip from the corners of his eyes.

“Shh, shh, none of that,” Peter murmurs, releasing the chains and cupping his big hand to Martin’s cheek, wiping a tear away with his thumb. 

“You’re such a lovely gift like this,” Peter says, standing up and undoing the fly of his trousers. “I’d really like to play with you a bit longer, but I think you need taking care of. Maybe next time, eh?”

Martin moans and shudders at the thought of ‘next time’, and he wishes he could be angry at Peter right now instead of overwhelmed with desire. He presses his thighs together hard, his body shaking with need. Peter untucks his cock, which is big and thick and hard and exactly what Martin imagined. He lets his eyes slip shut as the head nudges against his lips, as he draws it in and sucks hungrily on it, salt already leaking across his tongue. 

“Good boy,” Peter says, his voice rough, and urges Martin to take more, deeper, his cock pressing into the back of Martin’s throat while Martin swallows and swallows, hearing himself make obscene noises, saliva drooling out of his mouth and down his chin. Peter’s hand curls into his hair, oddly tender, and Martin finds himself leaning into the touch. All too soon, Peter pulls away, and Martin moans at the loss.

“Now now, Martin,” Peter tuts, “What did I say about being greedy? You want to sit on my cock, don’t you?”

“Yes, Peter, please,” Martin is aware that he’s begging and he doesn’t care. He’d say anything, _do_ anything, to get what he needs, Peter’s cock in him and Peter’s hands on his chains, driving him out of his mind. Peter smiles, pleased. He sits down on the sofa, still fully dressed but for his open trousers, and easily pulls Martin up to sit in his lap. Martin can feel the hot shaft of Peter’s cock pressed against his arse, so close to his cunt, and that draws another gush of slick that must be soaking into Peter’s trousers. 

“Please…” he whimpers, and Peter kisses his ear. 

“So eager,” he says, and gets his hands on Martin’s hips, maneuvers him up so the head of Peter’s cock slips between the lips of his cunt. Martin hears little panting moans escape him as he sinks down onto Peter’s cock, taking it inch by inch until it’s seated entirely, his arse flush against Peter’s thighs. He wriggles a little, his cunt pulsing with pleasure at the feeling of fullness, his nipples and his cock still swollen, hot and painful, and all Martin wants is for Peter to play with them, _please._ He bounces experimentally in Peter’s lap, and Peter slaps his inner thigh hard, a sharp sting that makes him cry out. 

“Be patient, pet,” Peter tells him, sounding amused. He anchors Martin with a hand on his hip and then starts to fuck him, his cock driving deep, deep on every stroke, hard enough to jolt the breath from Martin’s body. Peter nuzzles into his throat, sucking hard kisses as his beard scratches at Martin’s skin. His arm slides around Martin’s body to tug on the knot where the chains meet, that same insistent rhythm that pinches hard around his nipples, his cock, in time to Peter’s thrusting hard inside him. 

Martin’s crying again, he can’t stop crying, tears of pent up fear and frustration at this hot aching need that won’t abate, god he needs, he _needs._ He gasps Peter’s name when he comes this time, his body going boneless in Peter’s arms while Peter shushes him, kissing his cheek. Peter keeps fucking him, his hands roaming all over Martin’s body, stroking between his thighs and over his cock, up to his belly and his chest, squeezing the tiny handful of Martin’s breasts and pulling on the clamps to make him sob. 

“Such a good boy,” Peter breathes in his ear, kisses him again while he tugs and twists the tormenting chain, sending Martin’s body spasming over the edge again, whimpering and sobbing until his throat is raw. Peter gasps as Martin’s cunt clenches around his cock, thrusts up again and he’s coming with a moan, the most vulnerable sound Martin’s ever heard from him. Peter’s arms hold him, oddly comforting, as he rocks against Martin with the final aftershocks of orgasm. Peter presses a kiss to his neck, and there’s a moment of strangely tender silence as they both breathe. 

“Right,” Peter says brusquely after a few seconds. “We should get these things off—it’s not wise to wear them for too long, you know.” 

Martin could think of a few choice words to say about that advice, except then Peter lifts him off his lap and onto the sofa and he moans weakly, starting to feel that desperate arousal curling up inside him again. Peter’s eyes rake over him, his expression unreadable. 

“Just lovely,” he says. Then he takes hold of the clamp on Martin’s left nipple and presses down; it opens easily under his touch. He removes the one on his right nipple and then frees his cock, and Martin is crying again now as the blood starts to flow painfully, his nipples cherry red and swollen, his poor abused cock finally flagging. He curls in on himself, in too much pain to do anything else, as Peter hovers awkwardly. Peter gets to his feet. 

“I’ll just go and...be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” As if Martin could, and he doesn’t even see if Peter leaves the room or vanishes into the Lonely. Good riddance in either case. He hugs himself, knees drawn up to his chest, as the pain pulses through his chest and between his thighs. God, he hopes he hasn’t done permanent damage; the thought makes him feel sick. 

Peter actually does come back, after a few minutes. The pain is starting to subside, just a little, from stabbing to throbbing, which Martin thinks must be an improvement, when Peter crouches in front of him and presses a cold, cloth-wrapped bundle into his hand. 

“Ice,” he says, as if Martin couldn’t figure it out. Peter’s brought three washcloths filled with ice, and in other circumstances, Martin would be wondering where on earth he got them from. As it is, he lets Peter help him sit up, and settles one of the ice packs in his lap while he presses the other two against his chest. 

“There now,” says Peter in a tone that Martin thinks is meant to be soothing. “It should feel better soon. One good thing about this kind of artifact, they don’t tend to have lasting effects.”

The ice is helping, Martin has to admit, the pain receding enough that he can think clearly. His first thought is that, mercifully, the constant arousal is gone, drained away like water out of a bath, leaving only exhaustion and aches behind. His second is that the person responsible for his humiliation—if ‘person’ is even the right word—is right in front of him. Despite how tired and weak he feels, anger coils fierce in his chest. 

“You bastard,” he snarls viciously. Or tries to, but it comes out as a raspy whisper. 

“Oh, hang on,” says Peter. “Water.” He produces a large glass of water from somewhere behind him. It looks crisp and very cold, and Martin would protest as Peter lifts it to his lips, but his own hands are occupied and he doesn’t want to remove the ice packs for a second. Peter tilts the glass carefully and Martin swallows, and swallows, cold water soothing his sore throat and running into his belly, and all too soon the glass is empty. Peter gives a satisfied nod. 

“Much better. Now, what were you going to say?”

“You _bastard,”_ Martin repeats. Peter blinks at him. 

“All right,” he says. “It’s obvious you’re upset about something, but I’m not sure what, exactly.” 

If Martin wasn’t so utterly feeble right now he might lunge for Peter’s throat, monster powers be damned. 

“You’re not sure _what?”_ he says, incredulous. “Really, Peter? You’re not sure why I would be... _upset_ about you doing _this_ to me?” He waves a hand at himself and then quickly returns the ice pack to his poor, abused nipple. Peter frowns, looking confused.

“It looks to me like you did this to yourself,” he says. “Or did you...not want to have sex with me? If not then I have to say, Martin, you need to work on not sending mixed messages. Putting yourself in those clamps and then calling me to your office and begging me to fuck you?” 

“I didn’t call you anywhere!” Martin snaps. “And how was I supposed to know that the weird gift you sent me—which was _ridiculously_ inappropriate, by the way—was actually some sort of—of spooky trap?” 

“I mean it’s fairly obvious if you know anything,” says Peter. “You can put them on yourself but you can’t take them off. Didn’t you even _notice_ the knot on the—hang on, what do you mean _I_ sent it to you?” 

“I’m not sure what you find ambiguous about that sentence,” Martin huffs. He’s starting to shiver, and to his surprise, Peter stands up, fetches his coat from where it’s hanging over the chair by Martin’s desk, and drapes it over Martin’s shoulders. The fabric is heavy and warm, and Martin’s pride isn’t fierce enough to deny it. Peter crouches down in front of the sofa again.

“I didn’t send you these,” he says, nodding at the discarded clamps. Martin scowls.

“And I didn’t ask you to come here,” he mutters, though it’s a good thing Peter did. Who knows how long he might have been trapped in those things? What might have happened to him?

“I have a text from you right here,” Peter insists, taking his phone out of his pocket and pulling up a message on screen. Martin glances at it, and rolls his eyes. It has Martin’s name at the end, and it asks Peter to come to his office right away. But there’s one glaring issue. 

“That’s not my number!” 

“It has your name right there,” Peter points out. Martin huffs and grabs the phone out of his hand, dropping one of his ice packs.

“You cannot actually be this bad with technology, I swear,” he grouses, scrolling to Peter’s meager contact list, where his name and number are listed. _“This_ is my number. You know anyone can sign any name to a message, right?” 

“I didn’t really think about it,” Peter admits, looking slightly sheepish. Martin hands the phone back and sighs. His anger hasn’t dissipated, but it looks as if Peter might not be to blame after all. In fact, the gift didn’t even _actually_ say it was from him. It seems like someone else manipulated both of them into this situation, though he’s not sure why. Martin sets down the other ice pack and removes the one settled against his groin. His nipples and cock look bruised, tender and aching, but the pain is receding further, to his relief. 

“Would you hand me my trousers?” he asks. “I think I’m going to take the rest of the day off.”

Peter does, and Martin dresses slowly, his movements stiff. Peter lingers, looking more than a bit uncomfortable. Martin supposes he’s not a fan of awkward emotional situations, and Martin did cry in front of him just a while ago. 

“All right,” he says wearily once he’s dressed. “You didn’t send me a spooky artifact as a gift, and I didn’t put it on as a birthday present for you. Is that about it?”

“Seems like it.” Peter sighs. “Shame, really, it was a _very_ nice birthday present.”

Martin feels himself flush with embarrassment, recalling how he begged for Peter’s touch only a short while ago. The memory is embarrassing, but it also sends a rush of heat through him that his body is _definitely_ not ready for yet. 

“I didn’t even know it was your birthday,” he mutters, turning away, fiddling with the papers on his desk to cover his embarrassment. He frowns as he spots an envelope that wasn’t there last night. No stamp or postal address, just his name, in an elegant, flowing script that he recognizes instantly from years of performance reviews and signed expenses. 

“Elias…” he breathes. How on earth could Elias get a letter into his office? 

How could he get _anything_ into Martin’s office? 

Martin opens the envelope and reads the note inside warily. It isn't long.

_Dear Martin,_

_Thank you for your help in providing Peter with a suitable birthday gift. He is terribly difficult to buy for, but this year I know I’ve given him just what he wants. I do hope you also enjoyed the experience, and that there are no hard feelings regarding my little deception. Keep the set; they were a gift, after all, and I’m sure you’ll find some pleasant use for them._

_And if you’d be kind enough, please pass my birthday wishes along to Peter._

_Regards,_

_Elias_

Martin feels his blood boil, and he balls the note up viciously, flinging it across the room. Peter looks on with mild surprise. 

“Elias says happy birthday,” Martin tells him flatly, between gritted teeth. Comprehension spreads across Peter’s face.

“Ah, well, that explains that.” He looks even more disappointed, and Martin feels a pang of something that might be regret or guilt. 

“I’m...sorry I accused you,” he says. “You can see how I thought it was from you, though.”

“I’ve never given you anything but perfectly mundane gifts,” Peter protests, and Martin finds himself smiling, despite himself.

“True. But you’ve also never given me any sign if you actually _like_ me, or just see me as a potential shag.” 

“I like talking to you,” says Peter, as if it’s utterly obvious, and Martin supposes it is. Peter doesn’t talk to people, but he talks to Martin. Too much, sometimes, when Martin should be working. Martin knows that Peter is a monster, knows that whatever he’s doing here at the Institute, whatever scheme he’s wrapping Martin up in, it can’t be good. But, well, it’s nice to feel wanted. Desired. And Martin has to admit, he likes talking to Peter too. It doesn’t make him feel less lonely, but it makes him feel less alone.

He shouldn’t encourage this, he knows, but...he wants to. And Martin’s tired of doing what he should instead of what he wants.

“If you really like me,” he says, “Try asking me out for dinner sometime.”

Peter actually looks surprised at that, his pale eyes widening minutely. Martin thinks he even sees a hint of a flush on his bearded cheeks. 

“All right then,” he says. “Martin, would you have dinner with me?”

“Yes,” Martin tells him. “But not tonight—I, umm, need some time to rest. I’m not even sure I can walk properly right now.”

“We’ll wait until you’re feeling better then,” Peter almost purrs, a glint in his eye. Martin considers cautioning him that ‘dinner’ does not imply anything else, but he’s not kidding himself; the thought of fucking Peter again, while he’s in his right mind and can fully appreciate it, is _extremely_ appealing. For now, though, Martin is absolutely done with this day, and it’s not even eleven o’clock. 

“Right,” he says firmly. “I am going to get a taxi home, and rest—maybe take a very long bath—and you may or may not see me tomorrow.”

Martin collects the rest of his things, and sees Peter smirk when he picks up the clamps from the sofa, the delicate chain looping around his hand. Martin can still feel the pull of it, the desire to _just_ _try them on, see how it feels, how it looks..._ but it’s faint now, easy to resist. Still, he turns and hands the chains and clamps to Peter. 

“You’re sure you don’t want to keep it?” Peter asks, looking crestfallen. Martin rolls his eyes.

“Don’t push your luck,” he says, and then relents. It _is_ the man’s birthday, after all. Martin takes a step closer, pushing up onto his tiptoes so he can whisper in Peter’s ear, leaning into Peter's chest while Peter’s arm goes firmly around his waist. 

“You hang onto it for now, and we’ll see,” he murmurs, and then cups Peter’s face in his hands and kisses him, slow and lingering. Peter’s cheeks are pink when Martin pulls away, and as soon as Martin releases him he’s gone, faded away as if he was never there. Martin shakes his head and smiles to himself; it’s nice to know he has the power to fluster Peter right into the Lonely. 

He heads for the door, and turns back to the empty— _maybe_ empty—room as he leaves. 

“Happy birthday, Peter,” he says. 

There’s no response, but Martin has a feeling he's been heard. 

**Author's Note:**

> -One-sided sex pollen (in the form of a fear artifact), Martin is affected but Peter is not.  
> -Martin consents to sex with Peter while under the effect of sex pollen.  
> -Peter thinks that Martin has intentionally put himself under the effect, and that Martin set up this scenario in order to have sex with him.  
> -Martin is upset by the experience but not in a deep/lasting way, and decides he wants to have sex with Peter again.
> 
> Find me on tumblr @cuttoothed


End file.
